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but he’s resigned it to. He informed Mr. Maitland that the LAPD would have tagged the Serial by now if two of the murders hadn’t happened in outlying sheriffs’ districts. David Elman, head of their Homicide Special Section, had already spoken to the sheriffs’ people. Mr. Maitland asked him to arrange a meeting at LAPD headquarters tomorrow with all the sheriffs’ detectives and LAPD detectives who’ve been working the case, get everyone together, face-to-face, with Montoya. Make it perfectly clear you’re in charge, Cam, that it’s you who will decide what directions to take them.
    “I’ll download all the separate murder books to your iPad so you can review them on your flight to L.A. this afternoon—autopsy reports, crime scene reports, bios of all the detectives working the cases.
    “You’ll have to start by not shooting any of them at the meeting tomorrow. I doubt the sheriff’s department detectives will give you any trouble, but you never know. Sherlock told me you deal well with male egos at the gym.”
    An eyebrow went up. “Me? I marvel at her skill at that, Dillon. There’s never any bloodshed.”
    Since he did as well, he couldn’t disagree.

4
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    Savich watched Cam Wittier stroll through his unit, taking her time because there were eight agents to touch base with, and, of course, there was Shirley the unit secretary. Cam had her smiling and talking—about her health, her family’s health, about all her pets’ health. That was smart. Any agent with a brain knew the unit secretaries ran the FBI universe. Shirley was grinning from ear to ear when she handed Cam her airline tickets and itinerary.
    He’d picked the right agent to work with the local cops in L.A. It wouldn’t be easy with all those territorial egos vibrating when a federale walked through the door. There was something about Special Agent Cam Wittier, something shining and vital. Energy seemed to pulse in the air around her. She could draw people in like a magnet, maybe even some of those suspicious L.A. cops who would think she was there to bigfoot them. Yes, he’d picked right. If an outsider had a chance of navigating the alligator-infested waters of L.A. without undue carnage, it was Wittier.
    Sherlock appeared in his doorway. “She’ll knock ’em dead, Dillon. The way she reads people, not to mention that brain of hers—it’s all good. I’vecome to haul you off to lunch. I’m thinking maybe some Chinese—”
    His cell belted out Jessie J’s Bang Bang.
    He answered and heard a whispery voice, thin as old parchment. “Dillon?”
    “Venus? Is that you? What’s wrong?”
    “Yes, Dillon, it’s Venus. I daren’t speak louder. Someone might hear me, the wrong someone.”
    “Venus, I can hear you fine. What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
    “Dillon, someone’s trying to kill me.” Dillon stared at his cell. Kill Venus Rasmussen? Was she losing it? No, not Venus. At eighty-six she still had her shark brain, still ran Rasmussen Industries with an iron fist. He’d spoken to her a couple of weeks before, and she’d been fine.
    “Talk to me, Venus.”
    Her voice sounded a bit stronger now, but still muffled. Was she hiding in a closet, a handkerchief over the phone, so no one would hear her? “Last night we were celebrating Alexander’s acquisition of some quite-valuable Japanese watercolors from the Fukami collection for the Smithsonian. Well, of course I did some groundwork for him, helped him convince Mrs. Fukami to donate the watercolors, but he pulled it all together, well, mostly. We had champagne after dinner and I only drank enough for two toasts. An hour later, after I was in bed, I began shaking, my stomach cramping, and I threw up. Veronica—you know Veronica, my companion—she called my doctor and he was there in fifteen minutes. He said it was an old lady’s stomach, sensitive to food I’m not used to. That’s what he said the first time too.” She snorted. “Dillon, the thing is, the